


A Knife in the Ocean

by peccolia



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Amnesia, Canon-Typical Violence, Drama, Families of Choice, Gen, House Fleuret, Loss of Identity, Original Character(s), Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Pre-Canon, Rebirth, Self-Insert, Slice of Life, Tenebrae (Final Fantasy XV), Worldbuilding
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-28
Updated: 2020-10-23
Packaged: 2021-03-06 03:20:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 16,915
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25576447
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/peccolia/pseuds/peccolia
Summary: Estelle knew three things for certain. One: House Fleuret had been nothing but kind to her. Two: Luna and Ravus would never lie to her without reason. And three: her name was not Estelle.No one accounts for the possibility of amnesia when they’re reborn into a new universe, much less a case that takes away not only the memories of their original life, but the memories of their second life, too. When those memories come rushing back, the world is already far too different to keep up with and even the Astrals are struggling to keep a prophecy in order. SI OC.
Relationships: Lunafreya Nox Fleuret & Original Female Character(s), Ravus Nox Fleuret & Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 11
Kudos: 36





	1. I

**Author's Note:**

> here i go again ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯

For as long as she could remember, and, granted, that wasn’t too far back, Estelle had felt more at home in the air than on the ground.

Having both feet on the ground was normal, for most people. But falling from any given height, with the wind rushing around her as she fell, unrestrained, at the whims of gravity—that was freedom. Even when it cost her a broken leg.

The broken leg happened a few years ago, though. She’d since learned to catch herself better.

There was nothing else quite like the world turning topsy-turvy in a panoramic spiral as her rolling body brushed the soft, thatched roof of a cottage before she was on her feet again, boots pushing off, hands reaching for scaffolding, window ledges, shallow handholds in flat, stone walls—anywhere she could grab onto—and she sailed weightlessly between buildings, caught up in the muscle memory of an acrobatic pastime.

Until her hand slipped.

It wasn’t entirely her fault. Recent rains left some surfaces too slimy to grip—which she knew. Which did make it entirely her fault.

“No! No, no—!” Fingers scrabbled for another solid handhold, for a strand of ivy that might take pity on her, but the moment to correct her blunder had passed. She was falling again—but this time it wasn’t the good kind of fall. It was the embarrassing, hopeless kind that left her flailing, marooned mid-air, gripped by a sense of _loss_ because this wasn’t how she was supposed to fall, she was _always_ supposed to catch herself, but something in her was empty, her _hands_ were empty, and—

Her back smacked the hard ground in a half-roll, barely spared the full brunt of impact as she rolled over onto both knees and gripped the ground, hands pressed flat to it like she was trying to push it away, trying to go airborne again, but couldn’t.

A dry heave wracked through her, so unpleasant and so very nearly pushing her lunch back up her throat that she slapped a hand to her mouth and let her head drop to the ground, hoping it stayed down.

It did. The nausea quickly passed, but she stayed still a moment longer just to be sure. Just to wait for the trembling in her body to stop. The fall hadn’t been long. Just a couple of stories.

So much for catching herself better.

When the world felt still again, when she came to terms with the fact that she was grounded once more, she sat back on her legs and stared up at the sky, taking a deep breath. It was still cloudy—probably going to rain again. The cool, earthy aroma of late summer petrichor all but choked her as she breathed in, and out, and in—until she could hear the buzzing murmurs of the nearby townspeople. Just on the other side of the alley she’d dropped into.

Fresh-baked bread and a myriad of spices hit her next. Pungent. Savory. _Delicious_. On a different level than the food she was used to.

At least she’d been on her way to the market already.

With a broad smile, she rose to her feet and brushed off her pants, her jacket, and straightened the hood set over her dark hair before hurrying out to join the crowd in the plaza, ignoring the faint twinge that pulled at her shoulder all the while.

Her smile stretched into a full-blown grin the moment she stepped out of the alley. And how could she keep her eyes from going wide in wonder? The marketplace was wonderful. Lively. Bustling. People of all sorts gathered here to shop, to socialize, to sell. People came here from all over Tenebrae, too. Everyone knew Uulora Village had the best marketplace.

Well. So she’d heard.

She dodged around a man pushing a cart loaded up with crates, offering a smile, and lingered at a kiosk piled high with apples of a blue-white hue—giddy. Absolutely giddy. A quick exchange of some gil and one was in her hand and swiftly bitten into as she rejoined the moving crowd.

Cool and crisp. Vaguely, sweetly floral. The apples back home were only yellow, and tart. Usually best in pies, or cakes.

Speaking of pies and cakes, and home…

Estelle stepped out of the shuffling crowd long enough to reach into her pocket for the grocery list she’d been given. Only—it wasn’t there. Or in her other pocket. Or in _any_ pocket. She stared down at the half-eaten apple and frowned. Maria had entrusted her with today’s shopping. It was a special duty—one that not only gave her an excuse to leave the manor grounds, but one that meant she was _trusted_. Relied upon.

She couldn’t let her or the kitchen staff down.

_Or_ the person the ingredients were meant for. _Luna_.

A groan left her lips as she pressed a hand to her head, raking her mind for what had been written on the list, but nothing came up aside from illegible scribbles.

“Sixteen years,” she sighed, shaking her head. “Sixteen years old and your memory is as bad as ever, Stelle.” Something about the math rang odd, but it wasn’t. Her seventeenth birthday was only two months away. But she _had_ taken a fall earlier—those tended to scramble-up brains for a while.

Losing the list wasn’t a _huge_ issue. How hard could it be to buy ingredients for one dessert? There were the basics, flour, sugar, eggs, milk…sugared flowers… She counted them out on her fingers while biting into the apple, studying the kiosks around her. Figuring up how much of it she could feasibly carry. Maria hadn’t only meant to send _her_ , but…she didn’t need to buy everything. Only certain, specific ingredients…

Maybe she should retrace her steps and try to find the list. But—no. The wind probably had it, by now. If she went looking, she’d only waste time. She was told to be back by noon.

She fiddled with the bracelet on her left wrist, considering her options. If she’d had a smartphone, she could just call…but what even was a smartphone, again? No one in Tenebrae knew anything about that sort of technology. Just magiteknology, thanks to Niflheim. Sometimes she was sure she’d only dreamed about them. Like caramel macchiatos and cotton candy and computers.

If anything, she knew one thing for sure: there was no way she could go back empty-handed.

That was that, then. She’d just have to improvise, based on what this certain dish looked and tasted like. Sugared sylleblossoms, at least, would be an easy find this time of year.

Purpose renewed, she stepped back into the throng—only to be pushed right back out again as something crashed into her legs. Her hand shot out, catching the pole of a nearby kiosk, and she steadied herself with a quick apology to the stall owner, who glanced over with concern. Then she focused on whoever knocked her back, eyes wide as she spotted a teary-eyed child knocked flat to the ground, rubbing a hand against their cheek. Glaring right at her.

“Oh—are you okay, kid?!”

They didn’t speak. Only sniffled, still scowling, and slapped her hand away when she tried to help them up. They got back on their own feet and scampered away without a word, disappearing into the crowd.

“Sorry…” she called after the child, setting her hands on her hips—looking down at one, abruptly, realizing her half-eaten apple had been knocked away somewhere out of sight.

The stall owner leaned against the counter and sent her a sympathetic smile. “Oh, don’t apologize, Miss,” she said in a sweetly-accented voice. “I would check your pockets if I were you. The urchins tend to steal.”

Oh, wouldn’t _that_ just complete her day.

She stuck her hand into her jacket, feeling for the few notes of gil she’d been given for the trip, and shook her head. “Nope. Still here.”

“Fortunate. Then, in that case, why not buy something nice?”

A small smile crossed her face as she leaned over to browse the jewelry and trinkets spread out on the blue cloth of the countertop. It all looked handmade, pretty, and of decent quality. Deliberately rough-cut gemstones were one of her favorite things, especially worn as pendants and hairpins. She could think of a certain person who would appreciate a hairpin, too—when she had more than paltry pocket change on hand to buy it for said person, anyway. Still, she fondly reached for the gold-plated barrette dotted with tiny, rough blue stones shaped like stars and crescent moons and almost picked it up when she noticed her left wrist felt strange—and when she looked between her sleeve and glove, realized it was bare.

Her bracelet was gone.

She barely had the presence of mind to blurt out an apology to the jeweler before she threw herself back into the crowd in pursuit of the little thieving child.

“Hey! Kid! Get back here! You little—” Moving through the crowd proved difficult. She fell into a stream of apologies as she bumped into and brushed past more people than she cared to, never wanting to be among the rooftops more than now. _They_ were never crowded. Most of the people gave her space easily enough—but not everyone. She hissed in a sharp breath as she bumped into someone rather solid—and metallic—so hard that her hood slipped back.

An Imperial.

It vaguely occurred to her that the crowd had gotten quieter—that most people were _leaving_ , and that she’d been going against the crowd. Imperials didn’t come in singles. They came in packs. She only briefly glanced up at the armored soldier, into the dark, narrow slits of the metal helmet—a human one, not one of those masked, robotic magitek troops—muttering an apology before sidling past, taking a wide berth around him and the trio with him and picking up her pace.

She’d been told they didn’t patrol here often, and when they _did_ show up, it was never a good sign.

That fall must have brought bad luck.

Estelle shook her head and returned her focus to the task at hand—namely, finding that child. It was easier to keep track of the ground, keeping an eye out for little ones that walked closer to the ground, when the crowd finally thinned out, but the child had made a quick getaway after mugging her.

There was only one way to find them now. She needed a higher vantage point.

She grabbed onto the first solid, ascending surface she could find, climbing up it and swinging herself onto the roof above, skirting around the edges and keeping her eyes trained on the streets and alleys below as she jumped between buildings.

And then—just her luck, but it wasn’t much of a surprise anymore—rain began to steadily trickle down from the sky in cold, fat droplets that sank into her uncovered scalp and plastered her short hair to her forehead. She didn’t have time to pull her hood back up. She didn’t have time to worry about the rain slicking down every surface and weighing down her clothes.

She _needed_ her bracelet. It was—

It was all she had, as far as memories went. A piece of her forgotten past.

Having it, wearing it, reminded her that she’d come from somewhere, that she’d had someone who’d given it to her—that there was a reason for the incomprehensible ache of longing that squeezed her heart.

If she didn’t get it back, she’d forget all of that, too.

A flicker of movement caught her eye.

She stopped—boots nearly sliding against the wet ledge—and crouched down, squinting her eyes to get a better look at the person below. Raindrops were sitting heavy on her eyelashes, so she scrubbed them away, shielding her eyes with her hand as her gaze followed the familiar, tatty hair of a little child thief.

They kept close to the wall, if not to avoid the rain, then to creep around unseen, and glanced over their shoulder religiously, cautiously, as they moved. Not a bad technique. If they hadn’t robbed her, she might have been impressed.

As it was, she wasn’t feeling generous. She gripped the ledge tight as she climbed down over the edge of the building, lowering herself until she could safely drop to the ground, not bothering to hide the wet splash her boots made when they hit.

The child jumped nearly a foot into the air when she landed right behind them—and she snatched them right out of the air, gripping the back of their oversized shirt tight and letting them dangle from her hold. To their credit, they didn’t make a peep—but they did thrash around until she spoke.

“You have something of mine,” she began, lightheartedly enough, even conversationally, but with an edge to her words. “Want to give it back now? If you do, I’ll let you go on your way. No harm, no foul.”

“ _Let go of me!_ ” the child finally yelped out in Tenebraen, glaring at her sidelong and grabbing at their shirt. “Don’t got anything!”

“Hey, look, that bracelet is really important to me. I almost wish you took my gil instead.” She paused, putting her index finger to her lips and chewing on the edge, before nodding to herself and speaking in the local language. “Hey, why don’t we trade? 100 gil for the bracelet.” She’d pay Maria back.

The child didn’t speak. She shook them slightly.

“Otherwise, you can hang around and get wet.”

“… _Okay_. Deal.”

Easier than expected. “Oh. You’re a businessman,” she complimented blithely, pulling a gil note out of her jacket, briefly eyeing its value, and setting the kid down so their feet were flat on the ground. They straightened their shirt with a grumble before facing her with a scowl, shoulders squared.

She held the note out with a smile, fully expecting them to hand her bracelet over right away, even as they stuffed the money into their pocket and stuck their tongue out at her extremely immaturely, turning tail and running away once again.

“…Oh, god dammit. _Hey!_ ”

Neither of them made it very far.

As soon as the child dashed out, they smacked into someone who’d been approaching from the other side of the alley. Again, just like when they’d run into her, they ended up flat on their rear on the ground. The armored soldier, however, remained unmoved. This one wasn’t wearing his helmet—but she almost wished he was. Seeing Imperial faces just reminded her that some of them were _human_.

And humans could be cruel.

“What’s all this about?” the Imperial asked, snatching the child up from the ground by their shirt collar, much more violently than she had. They hung from his grip, still, save for the hands gripping his arm. “Thievery isn’t tolerated in our territories. In Niflheim, you know, those with sticky fingers get those fingers _removed_.” To emphasize his point, he drew a dagger from his belt, holding the blade close to the child’s grasping hands with a lazy grin. They immediately dropped their hold and whined in terror. The Imperial laughed—an ugly sound. The way he spoke the common language was just as ugly.

“This _isn’t_ Niflheim.” She hurried forward, grabbing for the child, wrenching them from the soldier’s iron grip. At least, trying to, before she found that same dagger shoved near her face. She didn’t let go of the child, but she did move her head back a safe distance from the blade, eyes narrowing. “This isn’t Niflheim,” she repeated. “And this kid isn’t a thief.”

“Back alley deals aren’t tolerated, either. Purchasing stolen goods is also a crime, you know,” he continued, as if he hadn’t heard her.

“I said—”

“Or could it be you’re _also_ a thief? I remember you. After you ran into me, my wallet oh-so-mysteriously went missing.”

So he was the same one from before.

Her grip on the child tightened. This Imperial was not a high-ranking soldier. His armor was plain, basic, no signs of a noble crest, no notability whatsoever. Just a foot soldier. A bully looking to stomp on someone. A liar, to boot.

“If it’s gone, you must have lost it yourself,” she said in a biting, chilled tone.

The soldier stared her down. “It doesn’t matter if you don’t _think_ this is Niflheim. Commit a crime against an Imperial, and you deal with the empire.” With a scowl, he threw the child to the ground and grabbed her by the arm when she tried to help them up from the soaked pavestones.

Oh—she _hated_ being touched by strangers, manhandled or not. And where he’d grabbed her, under that sleeve, began the itch of her worst burn scar. Only a vague discoloration, now, largely painless, but she didn’t even let those closest to her touch it for how its presence alone still made her flinch.

“Let _go!_ ” She tried to wrench her arm from his grip, grabbing at his wrist and trying to pry it away, but without success. As if that wasn’t bad enough, he laughed—amused by the entire situation. Just toying with them to pass the time.

He flashed the dagger again. “Return what you stole first, you Tenebrae rat.”

Her lips parted as she gnashed her teeth together, eyes scanning the soldier for weak points, openings—and finding them. He didn’t take her seriously. Didn’t think she could fight back. Even while armed, and despite his threats, he already hesitated to use his dagger and held it in a lax grip while focusing on keeping hold of her. His mistake.

She snatched the dagger right from his hand and, feeling his grip on her arm loosen almost immediately, took advantage of his surprise by raising her boot and delivering a harsh kick to his torso, knocking him back with a satisfying creak of metal.

He stumbled, coughing out, winded—almost doubled over. But not damaged—not in that armor.

She didn’t stop to see him recover from the shock. She grabbed the child by their hand and yanked them up off the ground, dragging them along behind her to make a fast exit and get them both the absolute hell out of there.

Thief or not, after escalating the situation this much, neither of them were safe. 

Her grip tightened on the stolen dagger. It felt better to have a weapon in her hand—always did. Maybe if she’d been allowed to carry a sword out of the training hall, this never would have happened. Then again, it could have ended up _worse_.

The child tugged at her arm sharply, and she glanced over at them as they pointed to a narrow space between buildings. Way too narrow to be an alley. Too narrow for her to fit through. Way too narrow for an armored soldier to fit through, especially. Easy for a child, though.

Without wasting a second, she nudged the child between their shoulder blades, pushing them into the space so hard they stumbled to their knees. “Go on. Get out of here.” The Imperial couldn’t chase them both.

“ _Wait!_ ”

She turned—and when she did, something shiny sailed through the air. She caught it in her free hand, already knowing by the feel of the delicate chain and the outline of the wing-shaped charm that it was her bracelet. The child disappeared before she could thank them, already well ahead in the shadows of the narrow space. Safe, for now.

She aimed on getting to safety, too. Namely, to the train station. And on a moving train, where no Imperials could hassle her.

It was still quite a distance away. Better to be high up, both to cover more ground and to avoid searching eyes. She jumped onto the nearest window ledge, using it as a foothold to push herself higher and grab onto an overhanging eave, but when she expected to leap upwards she was suddenly falling back, away from the building altogether.

“ _There_ you are!”

The wet pavestones hit her back with a painful splash and her head bounced off the ground once, hard enough that stars flickered in her eyes. It took a full moment to understand that she’d been grabbed and thrown, that her throat ached slightly when she’d been yanked back by the hood, and another moment to realize that the Imperial she’d been running from was now looming over her, kneeled on one knee, with a vicious glare.

The dagger was no longer in her hand. She’d dropped it, and it was only inches from her fingers. Close enough for the Imperial to grab it up, though. This time, he didn’t hesitate to press the blade against the base of her fingers, against the glove, fully prepared to hack them off despite how much she kicked and yelled, and gripped and yanked at his gauntlets with the hand that wasn’t held down. But the rain weighed her down, her clothes were clinging too close, and she could do nothing to move the knife away.

Anger rose up within her, from depths she didn't know. They say you see red in fury, but for her, it was a deep and shimmering indigo. Cold. Her fingers dug in to his armor so hard she swore something cracked.

“Let this be a lesson. Don’t cross the empire,” the Imperial said harshly, rain dripping off his face, off his wicked grin, as the blade cut through—

“ _Unhand her at once, you_ _fool!_ ”

—and abruptly drew away as heavy, rapid footsteps approached.

The Imperial stumbled to his feet as a hand grabbed his shoulder and wrenched him back, and when he was gone, Estelle scrambled back and rose onto her knees, holding her hand and watching as it bled freely from the gash in her glove, blood diluted by the rain.

All fingers were still blessedly attached. And her vision was clear.

But the trouble hadn’t passed. She knew that voice…and _he_ was the one who’d explicitly told her she wasn’t to leave Fenestala Manor unaccompanied. Ever. If she didn’t look at him, though, maybe he’d just walk away. Maybe the icy chill that had fallen over her and made her hands tremble would pass.

The Imperial who’d attacked her was no longer so smug. In fact, he looked considerably cowed, immediately sheathing his dagger and bowing his head. Not saying a word. Obedient and shamed in the presence of a superior. Though, Ravus Nox Fleuret had a special talent for intimidating others, regardless of his military standing.

“That is Lady Estelle of House Blanc. You _dare_ assault Tenebraen nobility on these very grounds?”

At least he was mad at the soldier, and not at _her_. Not yet, anyway.

The Imperial attempted a feeble explanation, but it was quickly dismissed by a few words spit out through gritted teeth and a shove that sent him stumbling forward and then hurrying away. Estelle didn’t pay attention to the specifics of their exchange. Only to the footsteps approaching her as she stared at her hand and gingerly closed her fingers against her palm even against the sting of the split skin.

Ravus didn’t offer to help her up—not only because he knew she preferred to help herself, but because, oh, he was mad. The volatile weight of his silence said all. She didn’t even need to see his face to feel the glower burning into her skin like pins and needles.

Usually, she’d challenge it head-on, but all of the fight had drained right out of her.

“I’m sorry,” she blurted out, still keeping her hand closed as she quickly pushed herself to her feet, and holding it close to her chest as she looked anywhere but at him. “I know I messed up. Really bad. But—”

“I have no ear for your excuses. Come with me. _Now_.”

She didn’t protest. She followed behind him, hurrying to keep up with his rushed pace and staying close, only realizing now that everyone had cleared the streets and returned indoors—if not for the weather, then Imperial presence. A strangled sort of dread fell over her. No one else had been around to help. No one else would cross an Imperial the way she did.

That Imperial wouldn’t have cared that she was from a noble house, either.

She gripped her injured hand with the opposite, focusing on the pain, on the _meaning_ of that pain, and thanked her lucky stars she’d made it out all in one piece. It was stupid. All of it was _so_ stupid. Embarrassing, even. So, _so_ many times, she’d claimed she could take care of herself… of _others_ … She wouldn’t be surprised if Ravus threw that back in her face the next time he chose to speak.

They reached the train station without issue—just as its whistle blared to hurry passengers inside for departure. There weren’t many passengers to speak of. A handful of others, aside from them, all rushing inside to get out of the rain that only poured down heavier and heavier.

The train car she followed Ravus into was devoid of anyone but them, so it was easy to keep her distance from his disapproving frown and pass by a dozen or so rows of seats before dropping down into one, hoping to be left to herself, but naturally he wouldn’t have any of it, and claimed the seat just across the aisle. Not sitting in the seat correctly, even, but facing her, legs blocking the aisle, blocking her from running off to a different seat, just waiting to spout out a lecture. It was always _lectures_ , with him.

That wasn’t to say she didn’t deserve it, though.

Still, she couldn’t meet his eyes. She distracted herself by watching the rainwater drip from her soggy, black clothes in veritable rivers, pooling at the floor, like she was melting—until she noticed something else. She was crying. It only became clear since they were out of the rain and wetness still trickled down her cheeks. She touched at the tears gingerly, disappointed and surprised all at once.

“You have no idea how terrified you look, do you?” Ravus asked, dropping his florid, biting style of the common language for their native tongue. It sounded no less harsh, and didn’t bring an ounce of comfort, but somehow she preferred it, even when she tended to default to the common language. There was something familiar in it that didn’t resonate with said common language. Almost like—

The wisp of thought, like so many others, vanished; nothing but smoke between her fingers.

She couldn’t find words to respond. She only shook her head, rubbing at her eyes, but unable to stop the tears. Terrified, scared, however she looked, she certainly didn’t feel it. She didn’t know _what_ she felt—just that she was glad it was all over.

“This experience should give you pause the next time you feel the need to be reckless.”

A flash of white appeared in the corner of her vision—a handkerchief. Embroidered with the crest of House Fleuret. Once, years ago, she remembered watching Luna carefully craft the same type of décor onto a set of handkerchiefs meant for his birthday. It might have been from the very same set. But if she knew Ravus like she thought she did, these were probably generic, with the needlework done by the house staff.

“For your _hand_ ,” he clarified, never one to comfort her or dry her tears. He’d had much the same attitude when she’d broken her leg. “The last thing you need is an infection.”

_The last thing Lunafreya needs is to see you injured_ , is what it sounded like.

The intense urge to bring up that very point struck her, but a pang of remorse kept her lips shut tight and she took the handkerchief without a word, prying her now-useless, slashed-open glove from her hand and tying the fabric around the injury as tightly as she could with only one hand and her teeth to grip it. As she thought, this was a generic household item. The ones Luna had embroidered were personalized with his initials in the opposite corners of the crest.

She didn’t blame him for keeping them safe, though. There was a delicate, handmade scarf in her armoire that she couldn’t bring herself to wear for much the same reason. It was silly. Things like that were meant to be used. But…because Luna had made them…they ended up cherished as beloved treasures instead.

Thinking of Luna brought a fond—and guilty—smile to Estelle’s face. Luna really, truly, didn’t need to see her injured. Her burdens were already numerous, and having to worry about what happened in the market…

Ravus was always right, somehow. She had been reckless.

With that, her tears dried.

“ _I’m sorry,_ ” Estelle apologized again, taking a deep breath and finally looking her guardian in the eyes. Noticing how weary he looked, how stress pinched at his expression. Usually, he wore an irritatingly regal air of easy confidence and certainty, if not slight exasperation, but being soaked by the rain had a way of washing all of that away. Dealing with her blunders did, as well. Everything about him, from his pale complexion to his pale hair, looked even paler. Almost ghostly.

Had he known where she’d gone? Had he been out in the rain looking for her? Or had he found her by chance?

He was responsible enough that any one of those could be the truth. She couldn’t bring herself to ask.

It couldn’t have been easy raising up two teenage girls, one a sibling, one a ward, when he was only barely an adult himself. But he’d had no choice. She always suspected his involvement in the Imperial military hadn’t been a choice, either.

Everyone had their burdens to bear.

This time, she’d spare them both the trouble of a lecture.

She closed her eyes, solemn. “I really am sorry, Ravus. You do so much for me, and I appreciate all of it. I shouldn’t pay you back by being so brash—that’s no way to show gratitude. I won’t leave the manor without permission, or on my own, again. I won’t make you or Luna worry.” Almost meekly, she opened her eyes again and awaited his response, shoulders squared.

“For once, some maturity. You may yet leave that childish nature behind,” he said, but it was far from a compliment. At least the ghost of a smile crossed his face when he said it—only a ghost. It might have been a trick of the passing light, because she suspected he had a headache he was hiding well, and that was nothing to smile about. Possibly, it had been a faint grimace. Either way, it became a deep, troubled frown. “But this mishap isn’t entirely your fault. The occupying force is known to overstep its bounds near the outskirts of our nation. I’ll ensure the one who did you harm is appropriately punished.”

She nodded, staring down at her wrapped hand, recalling that frightening jolt of anger, and helplessness and _cold_. “…Right. Thanks.”

Silence fell between them. It was rare that they ever came to an understanding so easily. Usually it was the conclusion to an exhausting and juvenile argument. Then again, most of those arguments didn’t involve someone being maimed by a hostile soldier.

God. And it was just supposed to be a nice, normal shopping day.

She wished she could have gotten those groceries.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so this is a huge experiment but i'm super excited about it!! 
> 
> thanks for reading, feel free to leave a comment or come say hi at [peccolias.tumblr.com](https://peccolias.tumblr.com)


	2. II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A glimpse into Estelle’s life at Fenestala Manor includes some harsh realizations, an Imperial intrusion, and a birthday party for Luna.

In the end, the ingredients for Luna’s special birthday dessert had been obtained by someone else. All the better, too—her birthday was today, and she was due to return from her travels across the countryside at any time.

Estelle kept herself from lingering by the windows and on the balconies by honing her swordsmanship in the training hall. If anything, that run-in with the Imperial hit her with the hard and painful truth that her skills were not up to par.

The hilt of the blunt, practice weapon felt light in her hand. Not quite right. Still, she focused on keeping proper form and parrying the thrusts of her opponent, both feet on the ground but itching to rise. To kick off the ground and go airborne and dive down with a finishing strike. That wasn’t proper form, though.

Her thoughts came to a halt when the capped end of her opponent’s foil bent against the padded vest of her uniform.

“Oh. That’s a point for you,” Estelle said, letting her weapon fall to her side and removing her mask so she could give an apologetic smile.

“It doesn’t mean much. You’re clearly distracted. Did you even notice you picked up a foil instead of a sabre, Your Ladyship?” Her opponent removed her mask as well, revealing a shock of short, curly blonde hair like dandelion fluff and a slightly amused smile of her own. 

Estelle brought the sword up to observe it, realized instantly from its shape it was indeed a foil and not a sabre, and sighed. “I _could_ say yes, but I’d be lying.”

“You couldn’t fool me, Your Ladyship. Your footwork and balance were off.”

“Can’t you give that _Your Ladyship_ thing a break, Cornelia…?” For someone so young, barely thirteen, the young attendant was certainly not afraid to be blunt with her. She appreciated it most of the time. What she couldn’t appreciate was the use of such a grand title.

“My mistake. Miss.”

Estelle offered a wry twist of the lips. She’d go back to calling her the usual in a day or so, and the cycle would begin again, as it had for the past few years of knowing the girl. Everyone took rank and nobility _so_ seriously around here. It was just something she couldn’t get used to, and something she was certain she was never comfortable with even before she lost her memories. It was all in feelings—instincts. Those that brought long-lasting impressions that never fully went away, just like her desire to incorporate parkour into every aspect of her life.

She paid special attention to little details like this. Each one was a piece, however small, of what she’d lost. They gathered together and slowly piled up, and one day, she’d have enough to put together into a bigger picture that would make sense. That would leave her feeling less like she was kept afloat in the middle of a vast ocean with nothing but a life raft.

“Up for another round, Miss?”

She would have said yes, but something caught her eye. The bandages on her left hand—not her dominant sword hand, but she’d clenched her fist enough for it to not matter—had bled through, with a few spots of stark red staining the once-pristine fabric.

Hopefully the stitches were still intact.

Cornelia approached while she stared down at her hand, breathing a soft sigh as she, too, spotted the stains.

“That’s a no, then. Come with me, Miss. We’ll get that taken care of.”

Like _she_ was the younger one, Cornelia offered her hand to Estelle, and she automatically reached for it with her uninjured hand before catching herself and frowning, setting the same hand on her hip. Cheeky kid. Her younger siblings probably hated that attitude.

Estelle shook her hand in a dismissive gesture. “Uh, no, I can take care of it.”

“…Are you sure?”

“I’m sure.”

Cornelia only stared with rising smugness in her dark eyes, which turned to a smile when Estelle rolled her eyes and grabbed her still-outstretched hand, allowing her to walk her to the alcove in the back of the room, where the fencing gear was stored, and where a row of narrow benches awaited them. 

“Don’t worry, Miss,” she said as she set aside her fencing gear and reached for the large woven sack she always carried on her shoulder, which always had what she needed. “One day you’ll be as self-sufficient as I am.”

Estelle sat on the other end of the bench, leaning back on her good hand and staring out at the blank white walls of the training hall. Most of the house banners had been removed when she sliced one clean in half thanks to a few dueling shenanigans that also had her banned from the hall for two weeks. The wall it had covered still sported a shallow nick from her blade.

The banner that did remain, hung from the vaulted ceiling, was high up enough that it was safe—probably. Unfortunate. It was a bit ugly. Gaudy, really. Purple and white, trimmed in gold, with a unicorn of some sort embroidered in a silhouette. The motto of House Fleuret was also sewn across it, but she couldn’t for the life of her read that scrawling lettering.

“Hand, Miss.”

She didn’t watch as Cornelia unwound the stained bandage with an expert efficiency. She trusted her. Not only that, but this was her wheelhouse, being the daughter to the house physician. Maybe she’d follow in her father’s footsteps, one day. She already spent most of her free time studying in the library. Not to mention she effortlessly held conversations in both the common language and Tenebraen. She’d even helped Estelle perfect her calligraphy for writing Luna’s name on the envelope of her birthday gift. _Self-sufficient_ was only the beginning of it.

“You pulled two stitches. Not a surprise. The injury is in an inconvenient place.”

“Great, does that mean I need to see the doctor?”

Cornelia nodded as she wrapped the bandage back over Estelle’s hand. “I’m no good with sutures yet. We’ll visit the infirmary as soon as we’re changed.”

All fencing gear back in its proper place, they ventured out into the corridors of the manor.

Estelle pulled her jacket back up on her shoulders while walking, glancing out past the open arches of the windows and flinching slightly against the sunlight that filtered through them, blaring out from behind one of many spires. From here, she had a good view of the bridge that connected to the manor to the southern main lands, but she wasn’t really sure which direction Luna would be arriving from.

Unlike others, it hadn’t been a long journey. She’d only departed to heal the ill in a small village in the Pagla region two weeks ago, but her absence made time stretch out and fold in on itself and seem far longer.

But that was to be expected. The Oracle’s duty was to tend to her people, no matter how long it took her away from her home. And that duty would never be done, so long as daemons and their darkness plagued the planet.

Oracles…daemons…sickness…

It seemed like only yesterday that _the Oracle_ was just _Luna_ and their biggest concern was whether or not the dull, droning old schoolmaster was going to teach their next tutoring lesson. No—even then, there had been numerous other worries. There hadn’t been a single day where Niflheim hadn’t been among the whisperings of the attendants and residents of the manor.

For Estelle, the empire and its agenda had always been something far away. It was nothing more than a distant land with a distant hold on her home. Imperials did visit the manor, from time to time, but she’d never had anything to do with them, never saw them herself, so they may as well have not existed.

Even daemons were something of a fairytale, in her mind.

She glanced down at her hand, flexing the fingers—and freezing as she felt the taut pull of stitched skin. It was real pain. The reality of facing the empire head-on, and such a small, small part of it.

The reality of losing.

How sheltered had she been, up to that point?

More than sheltered, maybe it was more of a willful ignorance.

Then: what else had she been ignorant of…?

That thought sat with Estelle the whole way to the infirmary, and occupied her through the process of having her injury re-stitched. It wasn’t until she and Cornelia were loitering around in one of the many corridors that she brought it into conversation.

“Your brother’s part of the manor guard, isn’t he?” she asked, leaning past one of the windowsills when she thought she spotted the movement of a travel convoy in the distance. False alarm—just the wind swaying the foliage. Her fingers tapped against the warm stone sill as she pulled back and turned her attention to the sight of a white butterfly landing on the vines of ivy that clung to the arches.

“That he is, Miss. Adrian is due to return along with Lady Lunafreya,” Cornelia said, more passive about the watching and waiting, occupying herself with a book instead, flipping a page as she spoke.

“And the guard always accompanies Luna when she takes a pilgrimage?”

“Ever since she became our Oracle, Miss.”

“Do you…think they’re recruiting?”

Cornelia paused, glancing at Estelle with a furrowed brow and the beginnings of a smirk. “I’m far from one to ask, Miss. That’s something you should ask Lord Ravus. Though I’ve heard he recruits members by dueling them personally.”

“What? No way. How does anyone even get recruited? Luna’s the only one I’ve ever seen come _close_ to beating him.”

“I’ve heard His Lordship evaluates on skill, not defeat.” Another page turned. “Are you truly considering it?”

Estelle slouched, stretching her arms out past the sill before drawing one back and resting her chin on her hand. “Truly am. But I doubt _he’ll_ ever let me in.”

A beat of silence passed before Cornelia shut her book with a _snap_. She must have slipped it into her bag, because the next moment, both of her hands were set on the window sill and she, too, was looking out at the mountain terrain beyond the deep gorge that surrounded the manor. “Is this how you plan to cope with Lady Lunafreya’s absence?”

“Well, there won’t _be_ an absence if I can go with her in the future.”

Cornelia breathed a short sigh, and started to speak, before craning her neck and squinting at something outside. A grin spread across her face. “It seems there’s no longer an absence to consider for now, Miss.”

Estelle very nearly launched herself out the window before Cornelia snatched the back of her jacket in both hands and hauled her back, dragging her along with her down the corridor to join a group of chattering attendants that were also rushing along to welcome the lady of the hHouse.

It didn’t matter who they were. Everyone dropped what they were doing as soon as news of the Oracle’s return reached them, and they all filled the pavilion at the front of the manor, some still holding the brooms and rags they cleaned with; the utensils they cooked with; the books they’d been reading.

By the time Estelle and Cornelia made it to the ground, the crowd was so packed that they were left at the back, lingering on the staircase a few steps up just to see past everyone’s heads.

Estelle pulled her hood over her head to shield her eyes from the sunlight, fingers lingering on the edge as she frowned at the shapes in the distance, moving ever closer—close enough that she could distinguish each one. 

Ravus must have gone to meet the convoy, because he was in the lead as it passed the threshold of the bridge, with the familiar deep black of Gentiana’s dress and Luna’s shining ritual trident following close behind. Instead of the personal guard marching at their sides, however, they brought up the rear, with the familiar and unwelcome sight of soldiers bearing white, red and gold in their place.

Imperials.

Exalted cheers became hushed whispers. As the convoy approached, the crowd parted wide to let it pass.

Estelle pulled Cornelia aside to the sylleblossom-strewn balustrades and tried to catch either Fleuret siblings’ eye, but failed. Their expressions were set in grim neutrality. Gentiana, however, briefly opened one eye and sent her a look she couldn’t decode, but that was nothing new. The woman was a walking enigma. She turned and spoke something to Luna soon after that had the latter finally glance her way.

An apologetic tilt of her head and brief twist of the lips was all Luna could spare, before an Imperial blocked her view.

Not just any imperial. Anyone could tell by the gaudy armor and the red, crested mantle that the man had rank and enough weight to throw around that Ravus had no say in his presence. Estelle focused her attention on him, narrowing her eyes at the back of his dark hair—until he happened to look her way.

A lurching dread dropped in the pit of her stomach as she wrenched her eyes away to watch Umbra and Pryna as their small canine paws pattered by, and curled her hands into fists, but she knew she hadn’t been fast enough for him to not notice the glare. His gaze didn’t linger, though. Even if it did, Imperials were well aware how much they and their empire were reviled in Tenebrae.

Soon enough, the entire procession passed, and Cornelia darted out to tail after the manor guard—specifically, her older brother, who had slowed his steps for her sake, both speaking surreptitiously in hurried, hushed voices.

Estelle had little choice but to follow, trailing far enough behind that she could duck behind a pillar and keep out of sight while keeping the group in her sights. Outside, the murmur of the crowd picked up again as everyone returned to the manor, avoiding the main foyer and the house’s unexpected guests like they’d brought plague straight to the doorstep. And they may as well have, when they left those creepy, juddering, masked MTs on said doorstep.

It didn’t take long for Cornelia to return to Estelle, quiet as a mouse, as the manor guard was dismissed due to the empire’s presence. Her brother followed fast in her footsteps, all three of them crowding together behind the pillar.

“Forgive me being blunt, Your Ladyship, but you are in _such_ deep shit,” Adrian said, never ashamed to casual, much like his sister, as the Imperial spoke with Ravus and Luna, too far away for them to hear the specifics. “Do you know who that is? That’s Niflheim’s Brigadier General Caligo Ulldor. He presides over all matters involving the manor and its inhabitants. Said he was here to wish Lady Lunafreya a happy birthday— _creepy, right?_ —but when he spoke with his men, your name came up as well. And a certain _incident_ that happened in Uulora Village?”

Cornelia set a hand on her elbow. “Miss… Perhaps we should return you to your quarters.”

Estelle stared down at her wrapped hand with her lips set in a grim frown. Hadn’t Ravus taken care of the problem? She hadn’t done anything wrong. Surely he hadn’t just been paying lip service to the issue for her sake. _Surely_ she hadn’t done anything wrong. Otherwise she’d have been waiting for the other shoe to drop like it did now and not be so caught off guard by it all.

No wonder Luna hadn’t looked her way sooner. It seemed she’d troubled her after all—and on this day, of all days.

“Uh… Right. That sounds good,” she said faintly, allowing Cornelia’s insistent tugging at her arm to finally pull her away from the pillar and toward the corridor. Adrian followed them, continuing to speak with his sister and occasionally Estelle, but her thoughts were elsewhere, too distant to even notice.

The two siblings remained outside of her room as she shut the door and paced, pushing her hood back and running her hands through her hair. The urge to jump out her window was strong, to scale the walls and find a spire to climb, to find some ledge to creep on like a gargoyle, but she’d been banned from doing that for some time now. She did walk to her window, though, and made it so far as to straddle the sill and drop one foot down onto the wide ledge below before Cornelia opened up the door and strode in with a less-than-enthused stare.

“Miss! You’re too much like a cat. Please come back inside and let me pick your outfit. I don’t think it’s unlikely you’ll be called down to visit with our…guest…and if I send you out in _that,_ Grandmother will have my hide.”

“Maria won’t have to worry if I’m going to be dragged off to jail.”

Adrian leaned in from the hallway, one arm resting against the doorframe. “No one said _anything_ about jail.”

Cornelia shooed him away, shutting the door so quickly the edges of his dark hair almost got snagged.

Estelle reluctantly obeyed, still sitting on the sill, but with both feet back in the room. “I’d prefer it, considering I messed up Luna’s birthday.”

“If anyone ruined the day, it’s that Imperial. Not you, Miss.” Cornelia threw open the armoire, lips set tight, and began rifling through her outfits before sighing. “If anything, at least dress for Lady Lunafreya’s presence.”

“…Alright. Nothing too stiff, though, okay?”

“Just enough to keep you grounded.”

* * *

Cornelia hadn’t been wrong. Just a few moments after Estelle switched to a more formal outfit, with pants swishy enough to pass as a skirt, and a fancier jacket—and, most importantly, a brooch with the round, silver and white crest of House Blanc—an attendant came along to deliver a summons.

Estelle hadn’t held an audience with other nobles, or high-standing Imperials, before, always a bit too much of a ragamuffin (in Maria’s fine words). _Please brush your hair_ this, and _please stop chewing on your_ _fingernails_ that, not to mention _please recall proper speech and posture_.

Luna was her best influence, in that regard. Whenever she was around, Estelle always wanted to look her best, and when she wasn’t…she tended to fall into bad habits.

As it was, Luna wasn’t present for this meeting. Perhaps that should have been a sign that nothing good would come of it.

The next sign was the room the attendant led her to: one of the smaller, darker, and less-ornate drawing rooms, which she read as a snub to the guest in question. Not that he would know. It wasn’t as if he’d seen every room in the manor, no matter his role in its welfare. But everyone else in the manor was well aware of that and also the fact that Ravus was riled by the entire situation.

No matter what his current mood or temperament was like, it brought no small amount of comfort to Estelle when she saw that he was waiting inside the room as well, entertaining their Imperial guest. Or at the very least, keeping him occupied. She’d never known Ravus to entertain anyone.

Like he’d read her thoughts, he sent her a familiar warning glance, but she ignored it as she stepped past the open doors and put on a wry smile as both men rose to their feet—so stuffy. Noble customs were _stifling_. If Cornelia had her way and wrangled her into a nice and cinched silk dress, she was sure she’d feel absolutely stifled, too. Especially when the doors clicked shut behind her, all but trapping her in the tense atmosphere.

Whatever they’d been talking about before she arrived must not have been pleasant.

Estelle pulled at the soft, dark lace of the hood that brushed against her cheek, wishing it was made of a more solid fabric that didn’t leave her feeling so exposed. The cover always brought her comfort during trying times. She was grateful, at least, that Cornelia was able to incorporate them into her wardrobe even for formal occasions.

_Formal._ Right. She was supposed to say something—introduce herself, maybe…? Or was the lord of the house supposed to do that?

She really should have paid better attention during those remedial etiquette lessons.

“The lady of House Blanc, I presume?” Ulldor spoke before either of them, deep voice taking on a detestable, oily quality. If that smirk on his worn face was supposed to read as polite, he failed completely. Still, she kept her smile up, even if it didn’t reach her eyes. His didn’t reach his eyes, either.

He was here for a reason: she couldn’t fathom what that reason was, or what it had to do with her. This meeting was already far too polite to involve punishment or accusation of a crime against the empire.

“The very one. Estelle Vers Blanc.” It never felt quite right on her tongue, but it was the only name she knew. She sat down on the nearest settee and nearly breathed a sigh of relief when they followed suit. Decorum _sucked_. But, thankfully, the man was across from her, far enough away (and with a coffee table between them) that it didn’t unsettle her too much. Still, her hands shook, and she hid it by surreptitiously fiddling with the bracelet on her left wrist, trying to count each tiny golden link to stay calm, but stopping and folding her hands together instead when she remembered it wasn’t there. Its clasp had been broken during its theft. “And you must be General Ulldor.”

His brow rose in feigned surprise. As _if_ he didn’t remember her glaring at him on his way in. “You know of me?”

Only because the attendant gave her a crash course on his noble standing and the broad details on the way downstairs. Said attendant currently busied himself with a tea cart, ensuring the three of them had appropriate refreshments. Even when no one touched them.

“I do. But I guess I must have missed you every other time you’ve come around. What brings you here today?” _Aside from sitting way too comfortably on the manor’s furniture_. Her sharp tongue sorely ached against her teeth.

“I came to bestow my wishes upon the Oracle. One’s eighteenth birthday is something of a milestone. However, as you say, I haven’t yet met House Fleuret’s highly-esteemed young guest, and, as I am already here...” He waved his hand emphatically, meeting her gaze. “I couldn’t pass up the opportunity.”

The edges of her eyes twitched—but she succeeded in not flinching.

“Oh. Is Lunafreya not joining us?” She almost stumbled on the name, far too used to the shorter version, but no one was any the wiser. And she was already well aware Luna wasn’t around, but she needed _something_ to keep her afloat.

“No,” Ravus said curtly. “Lunafreya is fatigued from her journey and requires rest. The general has already delivered his well-wishes.” It became increasingly clear by his silence that he was only present to act as chaperone. But it was probably better that way, with his tone so full of knives.

“I…see. Well, in any case, it looks like we’ve finally met, General Ulldor. I don’t want to take up too much of your time.” _Just leave already or get to the damn point._

“Rest assured, you aren’t,” Ulldor said in that same fake-polite tone, as oily as the sheen of his armor. One he was no stranger to using toward his emperor, no doubt. “I’m not familiar with the noble House Blanc. Even your host has spared me the details. Why not tell me a bit about you and your house?” His eyes lingered on the house brooch pinned to her jacket as he spoke.

_Do you know_ any _noble houses of Tenebrae aside from Fleuret_ , she wanted to ask, but held back on that and said instead, “I can’t tell you much. An injury from my childhood took my memory and I’m the last of the line, you see.”

“I do see.” Ulldor shot a cursory glance to Ravus before an undoubtedly patronizing, ugly smile crossed his face. “It’s no wonder you’re an esteemed guest of the good House Fleuret, in that case. I’m certain the colonel here takes _good_ care of you.”

Estelle folded her hands together, gripping them tight. She may not have been well-versed in the nuances of politics and the gentry, but she knew a tasteless personal jab at someone’s character when she heard one. No doubt Ravus did, too, but he did well to conceal it with his typically harsh façade. Had to. The man was his superior.

But not hers.

“He definitely does,” she said smoothly, despite the sharp, venomous anger rising within. Despite her desire to kick the Imperial disappointment out of the nearest window. Which unfortunately didn’t have a long fall. “In fact, I’m beyond lucky to have him as a brother, even if it isn’t by blood. I couldn’t ask for a better guardian.”

_Now apologize._

Ulldor’s unpleasant smile vanished as if she’d verbally threatened that defenestration. His cold, dark eyes returned to her, slightly narrowed, openly disdainful, and he waited a moment before speaking again. “I wasn’t aware you were under legal guardianship to House Fleuret, as there are no records. My mistake.” A trace of that awful smirk returned, and when he turned away from her, she had the vaguest notion she’d said too much, and that this wouldn’t be their only encounter. That maybe Fenestala Manor wasn’t as safe and distant as she’d assumed.

“I will _give_ you the records, if necessary, General,” Ravus said, almost weary, but also through gritted teeth, like he’d had to say it before.

Estelle resisted the urge to mouth ‘ _I have_ records?’ at him while in present company.

“Yes…I’m expecting it.” With that, Ulldor rose to his feet, in no rush but still instilling a sense of finality.

Estelle waited until Ravus was standing to follow suit, her hands still tightly clasped together, silk gloves almost tearing from the strain—her stitches tearing again, for sure. She didn’t move as Ravus escorted him to the door, didn’t utter a word of farewell, and finally let a frown overtake her features, openly glaring at the man’s back once again. Screw propriety.

Ulldor, however, wasn’t finished just yet. Before passing the threshold, he turned slightly, enough to cast her a side glance, expression unreadable. She maintained her glare.

“I understand a soldier in my unit accosted you in Uulora Village. I offer my sincerest apologies, Your Ladyship.”

Screw _him_.

* * *

The attendants and servants of Fenestala Manor had been at work since dawn decorating the garden pavilion for Luna’s birthday. Last year, she hadn’t been present for a celebration, occupied with her duties, so this year they certainly made up for it. White ribbons hung draped from the eaves of the marquee, tied into large bows with bundles of sylleblossom and baby’s breath adorning the centers. Despite the garden itself being full of sylleblossoms, heaping bouquets of said flower were strategically spaced around the pavilion, and loose flowers adorned the railings of the building, all chained together and twining around.

It was nothing less than excessive, in Estelle’s eyes. That wasn’t to say Luna didn’t deserve it—but she was always one for function rather than form. Small get-togethers and special dinners with a small party that consisted of Ravus, Gentiana, Umbra, Pryna, and Estelle.

But because she’d missed last year’s event, Luna had promised the household she’d allow them to decorate to their heart’s content this time around. It was more for their sake, Estelle figured, as she watched them mill about now, making last-minute touches to displays and chatting amongst themselves, most dressed for enjoyment instead of employment. 

If only she could have been helping with the décor instead of suffering through that awful meeting with that equally awful Imperial. It could have gone worse, though. Could have lasted longer than the few minutes it went on for. He could have stayed and crashed the party.

_“I offer my_ sincerest _apologies, Your Ladyship.”_

She openly scoffed at his parting words. Not to mention the ugly, ugly thing he’d tried to imply—in House Fleuret and in front of the Lord of said house, no less.

_Honestly. Ulldor? More like_ Ew _dor. Pompous ass._

Usually, she’d go complaining to Cornelia or Maria after such an obnoxious encounter, but that uneasy, cold reality of it all still swam in her stomach and she couldn’t yet put her worries into words. Instead, she leaned against one of the round, white-cloth tables spread around beneath the marquee, toying with a golden balloon, pressing it between her hands until it squeaked in protest and she released it, letting it float back up where it belonged, anchored to its centerpiece.

Excessive or not, the staff had outdone themselves. It was a festival in itself—and may as well have been. The Oracle’s birthday, had it been for Lunafreya Nox Fleuret or not, could very well have been a national holiday. But an oath to humility and general customs prevented that.

It all went a bit over Estelle’s head. She had the distinct feeling she missed out on the significance of it all, and not even Cornelia had an answer for her when she questioned it.

She nearly jumped when the barks of Umbra and Pryna signaled Luna’s arrival into the garden courtyard.

The cheers that had been cut short upon her return to the manor erupted once again. Clapping, congratulations—voices overlapped as everyone imparted their wishes. Luna remained gracious throughout it all: smiling, laughing, clasping hands, kneeling to hug the children. There wasn’t a person in the manor who didn’t adore her and Estelle knew the feeling was mutual.

Luna and Ravus, much like her, were the last of their line—but Fenestala Manor hosted an entire family of its own to support them.

Estelle couldn’t intrude on that.

She wanted to see her, she wanted to hear her voice, but she stayed where she was, looking on.

“Fixed in their places are the Star and the Moon, never to cross the distance between. So the Star believes. Fear not, for they are forever connected by the Light.”

There was no mistaking that cryptic speech. At some point, and quite suddenly, Gentiana appeared at Estelle’s side, standing tall and proper, hands folded neatly in front of her. She always looked absolutely perfect, stunning even. Not a hair out of place. Not a wrinkle in her dark, rich robes. Almost like a statue frozen in time.

“Gentiana,” she greeted, dearly wanting to add _what the heck are you talking about_ , but knowing better. There was something unearthly about the woman that pinged off an intuition of caution and watching one’s tongue. Not distrust—not dislike. It was something like seeing an outline of an object set off slightly to the left so that it was no longer crisp and clear. There were whisperings that she held connections to one of the gods of the Hexatheon, after all.

Messenger or not, maybe they’d had their differences before and didn’t get along, and only the notion of it remained as a strange, uncertain impression.

She also never quite had the courage to ask her for any clarification.

Gentiana opened her eyes, fixing her with an unreadable stare, with eyes as green as her own. Once, when she was younger, Estelle believed they might have been family, for the shared hair and eye colors, but after rather embarrassingly asking her if she was her mother, it was proven otherwise. Besides, they didn’t look a thing alike. Where Gentiana was soft and sophisticated, Estelle was all sharp angles and roughness. Maybe the latter was due to her lifestyle choices, though.

“Only with the passage of time will the truth be returned.”

That said, Gentiana bowed her head and took her leave, the soft clicking of her heels against the pavestones the only sign she’d been there at all.

It seemed she, too, was courteous enough to give Luna and the house staff some time together.

Despite the indirect nature of her words, there was a certain weight to them. For the four years Estelle had known Luna—the four years she’d spent building up a new life, a new self from scraps of what she’d once been—she’d only spent a bit over half of that time with Luna. Gentiana had been present for most of it. So she knew as well as anyone, if not better, that Luna’s ascension, including the long months she’d been cloistered at the training grounds, had been hard for Estelle to cope with.

Part of her knew she was being…clingy. But that same part yearned to be in her company. To stay at her side, as Luna had stayed at her side before answering her call to higher purpose.

It…felt like it was where she was supposed to be. For a reason she’d forgotten, or didn’t yet know.

But that was far too heavy to think about on a day like this. Estelle breathed a sigh, cleared her mind, and set her sights on the buffet table.

* * *

Thanks to the Imperial intrusion, the party had been pushed back from a pleasant midday celebration to an evening event, and the sun had quickly set, taking with it the pinks and oranges of twilight and giving way to night. Somehow, it seemed appropriate, with the full moon lighting up the night sky—present in clear view for its namesake, like it came to offer its blessings along with the house.

Estelle preferred nighttime. Not only for the comfort of the dark, but because it was when the flower fields always looked best.

For their deep, rich color, sylleblossoms were said to look best against a clear blue sky. But with the backdrop of a dark night sky, and stars glittering above, illuminated by the moon, the flowers seemed to glow.

So did their petals, floating on the waters of one of the garden’s many fountains, spinning in lazy circles thanks to the night breeze and Estelle’s hand submerged beneath the cool surface, occasionally stirring them along with the reflection staring back at her. 

She hadn’t left the party, only a short distance away from the tables’ bright tea light candles lit for the darkness, but even the other guests had begun to wind down and the lights snuffed out slowly, one by one. The youngest and the eldest had already retired for the night—with Cornelia’s family among them. Cornelia and Adrian, even their two younger siblings, had been fine to talk with up until then, but everyone else… they spoke to her with too much deference. Like they were walking on eggshells. Even on a night of celebration, of fun, they didn’t break that boundary.

It had a way of draining her. So much so that she almost missed the clicking of heels slowly approaching, unhurried, until they faded away and she thought they’d passed—but a familiar reflection came up alongside hers, the white of her dress and the fair blonde of her hair almost blinding with how it caught the moonlight.

Again, she was struck with the notion of a ghost—always ghosts, lately. Ghosts of memory, she hoped.

“You missed dessert. Strange. You’re not one to pass on sweets.”

A lazy smile rose to Estelle’s face. “I think I ate too many canapés…”

“Now _that_ sounds like you.” Luna breathed a quiet laugh as she took a seat on the stone bench surrounding the fountain, not sitting with one leg folded under and lounging across the edge and staring into the water like Estelle, but more like a proper lady always mindful of decorum, content to stare out at the sylleblossoms and the stars above with her hands folded neatly across her lap and ankles crossed. She looked fine, and she’d rested earlier, but something in her posture gave away the creeping nag of exhaustion—which she would never complain about. Always so strong, holding the weight of so many expectations on her shoulders.

Neither of them spoke, for a while. Only basked in the peace and silence of the night after a long day.

Nothing of the visit with Ulldor, or his presence itself, came up. But she couldn’t imagine she didn’t know. It was probably topic for future conversation.

Tired of stirring the water and trying to catch sylleblossom petals in her fingers, Estelle sank back onto the bench properly, facing forward and reaching for the silk gloves she’d carelessly thrown aside so they wouldn’t get wet.

“Stelle—what happened to your hand?”

_Oh._ Her bandages were in plain sight. Estelle tried to hide it, thinking up an excuse, but didn’t move fast enough. It was too late, anyway. Luna’s eyes were way too sharp.

Luna took her bandaged hand into hers and carefully turned it about, fingers brushing the fabric, gentle but determined, as if she could get the whole story from that alone. And maybe she could. Those were the hands of a healer.

Those were the hands that had held hers even before she’d awoken lost and confused, without name, without identity. Those were the hands that had kept her tethered to the waking world, keeping her from drifting free. Warm with certainty, with strength in kindness.

But if she did have that kind of divining skill, it hadn’t given any answers. Instead, she met her eyes, and asked, “Is it bad?”

Estelle bit her tongue back on the truth and forced a carefree smile, avoiding that earnest stare. “Ha, what? No way. I hurt myself worse when we tried playing Five Finger Fillet, remember?” A lie. She hadn’t needed stitches, then. “Ravus was so mad when he found out. It’s his fault he ever let us watch him play, though.” She paused, carefully taking her hand back. “This is nothing. Sorry to worry you, Luna.”

A solemn sort of resolve settled in her eyes as she shook her head. “You never need to apologize to me.”

Estelle’s smile fell. It was the same, any time she tried—Luna would never hold her at fault for anything, it seemed. Maybe to spare her the guilt, but, in doing so, only making it grow. Sometimes, she wished she didn’t treat her with such care and was harsh, like her brother. Or, at least, more honest with her emotions.

Then again, Estelle wasn’t being honest with her injury.

This wasn’t how she wanted to welcome Luna home. Not one bit. If she’d seen the stitches, Estelle could only imagine how distressed that gentle tone would become.

They were supposed to share funny stories. They were supposed to tell each other about what they’d seen while they were apart—like those strange apples at the market. Like what the Pagla region was like this time of year, and if its beaches were better than the rocky coastline here.

And Estelle was supposed to give her a birthday gift. Even without grand celebrations, even with their time divided, they never failed to exchange gifts, no matter how small. 

“So—how is it, being a year older?” she asked as she pulled on her gloves, if only to put her injury out of sight and out of mind. Sometimes it worked. “I heard Maria made you a special treat.”

The solemnity from before slowly faded. “Sugared sylleblossom tarts. Her creativity in the kitchen never ceases to amaze me.” A soft smile crossed her face.

“I didn’t even know sylleblossoms were edible until she brought it up.”

“They’re quite useful. In fact, I don’t think there’s a use I _can’t_ think of, as far as they’re concerned.” Luna paused, picking a stray petal off the bench. “For one, they promote the healing of flesh wounds.”

So much for out of sight, out of mind.

Time for a distraction.

“Anyway, I got you something. Happy birthday!” Estelle reached into her jacket and brought out a small white envelope, handing it over with care—beyond happy it hadn’t gotten creased or wrinkled.

“Oh, you shouldn’t have,” Luna said, but couldn’t hide her own delighted smile as she accepted the gift and eagerly, but mindfully, broke the wax seal and opened it, shaking the contents out onto her hand. She took a few moments to leaf through them, eyes going wide. “Stickers? These are from Gralea—and this one is from… _Altissia?_ Stelle, how on Eos did you get ahold of these?”

“I have my ways.” Really, she’d gotten them through Cornelia, trading some silver embroidery thread she never used, and she’d gotten them from Adrian, who’d gotten them from a well-traveled train conductor with a similar hobby. “You always bring one back when you travel to perform the rites, so I figured you’d like some from outside of Tenebrae for a change. There’s even one from Lucis—the one with the chocobos. Wouldn’t it be nice to go there someday…?”

Luna froze—just for a moment—before slowly gathering the stickers together in her hands. “They’re truly wonderful. Thank you.”

Again, they fell into that calm silence, neither showing signs of leaving anytime soon. Just like when they were younger, spending many summer nights out in this garden, stargazing, creating new memories to replace the ones lost.

If only it could be like this forever.

“Oh—Stelle, did you see? A shooting star.” Luna pointed up at the sky just as the cosmic tail of the star blinked out of sight, already passed.

_“My little shooting star.”_

Just like the flash of a memory that flickered through Estelle’s mind with faces too blurry to know, voices too far off to place. Only the words remained, burning as bright as those still stars hanging above, stinging in her eyes as unshed tears.

She didn’t dwell on it. Couldn’t. Not right now.

“That’s definitely for your birthday,” she said, grasping for the first thing that came to mind, rubbing at one of her eyes briefly and covering it all up with a grin. “Go on! Make a wish.”

Luna smiled slightly, before clasping her hands and bowing her head. “You should make a wish, too. They’re almost certain to come true on the night of a full moon.”

Estelle kept her gaze focused on the stars and clasped her hands together, wanting to believe in that old superstition more than anything.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey thanks to everyone who’s read/commented/kudos’d /etc. !! As you can see, we’re off to a bit of a slow start, but there’s much to be done and it’s a long journey from here. I have Plans.
> 
> Also, I figure this far back in pre-canon, Ravus probably isn’t even deputy high commander yet, so. Yeah. Different rank. And Luna appears!! She’s pretty fun to write.


	3. III

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> While seeking information about her past, Estelle visits an altar with Luna, then gets to see her family records. The former gives more answers than the latter.

Without Imperial presence, and with the Oracle returned home, Fenestala Manor once again fell into a quotidian calm. 

For Estelle, the opposite was true. 

It wasn’t often she could recall something sure and solid from her past—much less something so deeply personal. 

_“My little shooting star.”_

A fond nickname. Something a parent called their child. 

She didn’t know her parents. Felt nothing for their absence but an occasional ache of _not_ knowing. All she'd been told was that they’d died when she was young and her caretaker uncle had perished in a fire, the very same one that left her scarred and without memory. But now, knowing they’d cared enough to call her something so dear only made that ache grow. Made her understand, a bit more, that somber sadness that overcame Luna and that brooding silence that overcame Ravus when their mother, the previous Oracle, ever came up in conversation. 

As for who her parents were… No one really knew much about House Blanc, Estelle discovered—and fast. 

Mostly, she’d gone by what the Fleuret siblings told her, and what Maria could spare, but that wasn’t much either. It wasn’t that much of a surprise. Niflheim had steadily stamped out several noble lineages of the country since its invasion a few hundred years before. The only reason House Fleuret remained was because of its ties to the Oracles of past and present. 

What she wanted to know was how she ended up in Fenestala Manor, and how close her house had been to it since its residing house had taken her in. She hadn't always been here. No one seemed to have anything to say about her birth or her early childhood.

What was missing?

Ravus _said_ she had records, after all—but from what she’d learned from some snooping, the thoroughbred white chocobos in the stables had more (and more accessible) records than she did. 

No doubt he had them archived away somewhere with other similar documents—and the only way she’d ever see them was by asking him. 

Fortunately, he was still home, and not away serving the empire. Unfortunately, he was a bit difficult to find. 

Not even Luna knew where he was. 

“I think he does this on purpose sometimes,” Estelle complained as she leaned against the staircase banister, letting her arms hang over while she watched the floor below for a familiar face. In her un-bandaged hand, she held her family brooch, running her thumb over the delicate emblem. House Blanc’s noble crest consisted of a white dove against a grey background, encircled by a banner with a scrawled motto too tiny to read, with its wings outstretched in flight. A wing shape which resembled, but didn’t quite match, the charm on her bracelet. Which was still broken. She needed to find a way to repair it—find someone with the right skills. There had been that jewelry merchant in the village, but she didn’t think she’d be returning to that village anytime soon…

When she nearly dropped the brooch, she quickly returned it to her pocket.

“Surely not. Although, when he and I were younger, he was quite good at hide and seek.” At her side, a few steps up, Luna offered a sympathetic smile. “If he doesn’t show up soon, would you like to come with me to the Fulgurian’s altar?”

Estelle eyed Luna’s outfit—casual, no heels this time. Not the usual ceremonial white, but mostly white all the same. Dressed and ready to go. “For rites…?”

“No—a simple prayer.”

Her brow furrowed. She said she wouldn’t leave the manor without permission again, but… It didn’t technically count as _leaving_ the manor. Not when the altar was _just_ on the outskirts of it. Plus, she would be with Luna. That had to count for something. Or, not count as breaking any rule at all. 

Something like that.

“Well, now I’m torn. I haven’t seen his altar in some time.”

“He’ll be happy to have you visit, I’m sure.”

It wasn’t something she was open about, but…Estelle wasn’t a devout follower of the Hexatheon of gods. Not even any one in particular. According to Luna, it had been the same before, too.

Still, it never hurt to visit their altars. They were still fragments of history—a part of the world they lived in. Experiencing it, regardless of beliefs, helped expand her understanding of this world in a way textbooks, the Cosmogony, and conversations about it couldn’t.

It never hurt to spend time with Luna while she was around, either. 

And, really, she’d already made up her mind when she’d asked.

* * *

The Fulgurian’s altar was up high—high enough to have a direct line to any potential lightning strikes, and high enough that it very nearly pierced the haze of sparse clouds overhead. Anyone who wanted to visit took a careful and cautious climb up the steep stairs on the mountainside, or rode up with more reliable chocobo footing. Estelle preferred the former. Luna preferred the latter. 

“So,” Estelle breathed, glancing up at the mountain spire with her hand pulling the hem of her hood out over her eyes to shield them from the sun, “want to race to the top?” Never mind the careful and cautious part.

If Gentiana had come along, she wouldn’t have suggested it at all. She almost expected her to show up at the last second, somehow all-knowing, but no one was around except the two of them.

No human, at least.

The chocobo Luna had walked here specifically for the climb let out a low, keening _kweh_ as she fed it a leaf of greens and gently stroked the fluffy feathers on its neck, unhurried. “Your hand is still hurt. Should you be so reckless, Stelle?” It sounded like admonishment, but Estelle didn’t miss the slight smile on her face when she finally glanced away from the altar. 

Her mischievous smile didn’t falter. “That wasn’t technically a ‘ _no_ ,’ though…”

“If only you’d brought a chocobo like I suggested.”

“You know, I forgot just how steep the climb up was.” Just looking at the rising series of stone steps made her legs ache. Not to mention the weather—humid, today, and seeping right through her clothes already. Coating the rocky steps in a fine dew. If she slipped, took a wrong step, or grabbed onto a craggy outcropping too hard with her stitched palm, she’d surely regret it. A race was definitely out of the question.

“Would you prefer we switch? I wouldn’t mind the climb.”

“No way! I know you wouldn’t, but imagine how people would talk if I let the Oracle walk all the way to Ramuh’s altar while I sat cozy on a chocobo—especially after you just got back from a pilgrimage.” Her lips twisted into a grimace. “I don’t want to make front page in the tabloids, Luna.”

“Oh, if we _had_ tabloids here. I’m sure they’d have plenty more to gossip about.” While speaking, she set her foot in the saddle stirrup and hauled herself up onto the chocobo’s back, knowing Estelle had already made her choice. They were both a bit stubborn, that way. Unable to be swayed when they’d finally set their minds on something, no matter how small the issue. 

Without the fun of a race, they made it to the altar with little fanfare, and passed the watchful, weathered statue eyes of the Fulgurian himself in miniature, as well as the statue of the messenger Ixion, its curved horn chipped and scattered to time. If the entire altar had been covered, indoors, the statues and everything else wouldn’t have deteriorated so much. But the Fulgurian’s altars all remained open to the elements, particularly to storms, by custom. Thus, this one had been carved into the high side of the narrow mountain, all the way up its peak. Reinforced with a small stone plaza, decorated to become a comfortable place of worship until it fell to nature. 

Estelle mostly appreciated the flat ground and level footing it brought. But, along with that…

She covered her nose with the back of her hand when the sharp, electric scent of ozone hit her senses. Not a storm cloud in sight, not the faintest spark of light, but it hung heavy in the air regardless, as if poised and ready to strike. 

It buzzed between her teeth like static.

“Do you feel that?”

“I do. It's assurance that the Fulgurian’s presence still remains tied to this place, though he slumbers.” She glanced at Estelle, but paused, focusing on carefully dropping down from the chocobo’s back and thanking it for the ride. “Most visitors don’t notice. Perhaps he’s reaching out to you.”

_To smite me for my lack of faith?_ she nearly asked, but thought better of it. There was a very real possibility it would happen. But then again, Luna had said Ramuh would be happy to see her, and happy gods didn't smite their visitors. Instead of wondering which it was, she made a vague noise of acknowledgement and approached the small, stone basin full of gathered rainwater in the center of the altar, scuffing her boots against the worn, uneven stones beneath her.

“…You asked the same thing the first time my mother brought you here.” A bittersweet smile pulled at her lips as she glanced toward Estelle. “And you held my hand the entire visit. So tight I thought my fingers would bruise. You were so convinced you'd be struck by lightning, but I assured you otherwise.”

How embarrassing. Still, she held on to the scrap of story, unable to recall it herself. Unable to even recall the Oracle Sylva, aside from the portrait of her that hung in the manor in soft pastels, blues and whites and a noble visage that she knew in both Fleuret siblings. “What about you? How did _you_ react the first time you came here?”

Luna didn't reply immediately, seeming to mull over her response as she took off her riding gloves and stepped up beside Estelle, gazing down at the shine of the water basin. "Mother brought me here as well, and…I believe I cried the whole time. Not because I was young and didn't fully understand, but because I also felt the Fulgurian's presence, so strongly and so overwhelming and…real. After hearing the tales of the Six, of my family's duty, I understood for the first time that it was more than myth and legend. I felt the weight of it all for the first time."

She wanted to ask if she accepted it, then, or if such a heavy thing frightened her, if she only embraced the responsibility when it fell to her so young out of necessity, but couldn't bring herself to say a word. Who was she to poke and prod at Luna's faith when she didn't even have a full memory?

Plus, she'd clasped her hands in prayer and bowed her head and she didn't want to interrupt.

With her head bowed, the sun caught Luna's golden hair and it shone around the edges like a halo. Glowing. Blessed. 

Chosen.

The sight was almost too much to bear.

Something glimmered in the shadows of the far wall, the one set into the mountain—a welcome distraction. 

Estelle’s fingers danced along the exposed, slate-gray rock face and the glittering, glazed dark spots scattered along it like hard candy algae blooms. She might have seen them the last time she visited, because the sight pulled at something in her, like fingers scraping a dusty edge clean.

“Oh, fulgurites,” she observed quietly, the edges of her nails tapping at the solid mineral spots. “From when lightning strikes stone—so hot it melts. I bet there's even some shocked quartz under there.” A small grin played at her lips as she tore her eyes away and glanced up at the spire. “No wonder they made the altar here.”

“The Cosmogony tells of the Fulgurian’s altars being marked by stones cracked open by his holy strikes. Or trees hollowed out by the same occurrence. It’s said he chose the locations himself. Places he’s judged worthy.” Luna kept her head bowed over clasped hands, eyes still closed, as she spoke. 

Estelle lowered her gaze to the scattered offerings of small idols and gemstones and withered flowers left by worshippers. “Having one so close to home is an honor, then.”

“Yes, it is.” She paused. “So much so, that some time ago, our house adopted the messenger Ixion into our coat of arms as tribute to the Fulgurian.”

“It isn’t just a unicorn? Huh. Never noticed.”

Luna raised her head and let her hands fall, but kept them folded in front of her, smiling faintly. “I'll show you once we return.”

“What did you pray for?”

“For safe passage through storms.”

“Storm—what storms?”

“There is _always_ a storm, Stelle,” she said quietly, without any more elaboration. But that was fine. It was between her and Ramuh, now.

Then, she stepped away, pulling on her gloves, idly adjusting the chocobo's reins and speaking to it softly as it chirped and warbled.

It was an unspoken offer that she'd wait for her if she chose to make a prayer of her own.

Estelle considered the still waters of the basin, the glittering fulgurites, and gazed up to the peak of the altar's spire, then into the deep blue sky as if she would see the great, bearded Astral himself gazing down from the white clouds, towering over them. 

What did she have to ask of him, to say to him? The Fulgurian, Ramuh, the patron Astral of Tenebrae. Bringer of storms, covering the land in the shadows of tenebrous clouds and rainfall, but shepherding them through the danger of it and lighting the way with his lightning until the clouds parted and the sun returned.

Something like a double edged sword. Astrals always unsettled her that way. Beings—no, forces of nature—so powerful they could harm or help on a whim or passing fancy. So huge and towering they could squash any life below like bugs with the smallest, careless, move.

Even the felling of the Glacian Shiva had altered an entire biome into eternal winter. It hadn't been her intention, surely, but the effect was all the same. Unpredictable.

Or it was a consequence of hubris. A punishment for the Imperials that brought her down, no matter how many innocents it caught in its icy hold as collateral.

She wasn't sure who held the blame there. All she knew was that some things were best left alone.

The Oracle, on the other hand, communed with the gods directly, the sole bridge between the ethereal and Eos. No matter Estelle's thoughts on the matter, she couldn't help but admire Luna's strength. The heavy weight on her shoulders…the fate she'd been dealt from those same gods…

She could hardly fathom any of it.

“Don't you dare let her down,” were the only words she could spare him. And she hoped he heard.

* * *

It just so happened that leaving the manor to visit Ramuh’s altar was exactly the right move to get Ravus’ attention. When Estelle saw him waiting in the shade of the courtyard, she wished she would have gone with Luna to the chocobo stables instead of rushing back to the manor. Her steps slowed—she thought about backtracking, just briefly, before remembering _he_ was the reason she’d hurried on ahead. And, that aside, he’d already seen her, so the only way to go was forward to meet that unimpressed and annoyed glare. 

“I _barely_ left. I was within eyesight, even. If you looked out one of the higher windows that faces it, you could actually _see_ me and Luna at the altar,” she defended immediately, before he could start in on one of his lectures. 

He didn’t. A strained expression crossed his face, though, like he wanted nothing more than to ask her what she thought she was doing.

“Yes, you are lucky Lunafreya was with you,” he said instead, still stern as ever.

_Thank you, Luna_ , she thought silently, trying not to smile too much so he didn’t question it or, god forbid, change his mind about the lecture. She wouldn’t let this leniency go to waste. 

“Otherwise, Astrals preserve us, there's no doubt you would have come back with new injuries.”

Never mind the leniency. He just _had_ to make up for it with a jab like that.

It would have been nice to catch him in a good mood, but good moods and Ravus were polar opposites.

“Well, I thought Ramuh might strike me with lightning… But I'm not sure anyone could come back from that…”

“The Fulgurian only smites those he deems unworthy. And those who grievously offend him. If I let you become something so horrid while under my care, I'd pray he strike me down first.”

“Wow, thanks for the vote of confidence, Ravus.”

He rolled his eyes—actually rolled his eyes, almost too subtle to catch but she'd _seen_ it—and waved a hand vaguely.

“Your attendant Cornelia said you've been looking for me. So have a handful of the staff. Is this how you choose to spend your day? If you have this much free time, I'll arrange for a new teacher to occupy you.”

“No need! I keep plenty busy. I have a reason, I promise. You said you had my records. Like—a family registry? That kind of thing? I want to see them.” She crossed her arms, resolute, expecting him to refuse and preparing to stand her ground.

“As you wish. Come with me.”

“What—really? That easy?”

“They are _yours_ to see.”

Agreeing with him, saying anything more, felt like she'd be pushing her luck.

She followed him through the manor, to a room she’d only glanced into before—his personal study. Only glanced, because it was on the way to the library she accompanied Cornelia to at times (the very same library she’d scoured from corner to corner for those illusive records she was on her way to reading, at long last), and its door was usually shut and locked.

This room was also a veritable library, with plenty of books stacked across numerous shelves, but unlike the library, it lacked the long tables and chairs, and was more empty space around a blue decorative carpet than anything. A large, ornate, white writing desk at one end, an empty fireplace at the other, with wide, uncovered windows in between. Only two seats—one at the desk, and an armchair in front of the fireplace.

Not a place meant for entertaining guests. In fact, as soon as she stepped in, she felt a mild hostility about it all, like the only people allowed in here under usual circumstances were, maybe, the cleaning staff and Ravus himself. If Luna had ever spent any time in here, there would be at least one other armchair. And sylleblossoms, somewhere. 

As it was, there were none. 

Aside from the books, and the fancy writing supplies spread across his desk, in fact, the only personal accent added to the room was the gold-framed painting hung above the fireplace, of four figures: a very young Ravus, an even younger Luna, and their parents. All smiling, with a gentle air of content and peace. Done in the same loose, pastel style as the one of Oracle Sylva she’d seen in the manor atrium, as if they’d commissioned the same artist throughout the years. All of the focus was on their faces, where the details were so tight and precise she would never have to guess their identities, even for all the years that had passed. For Ravus and Luna, at least. She still couldn’t recall Oracle Sylva in the flesh, and never could have met their father. He’d died long ago.

Staring at the painting for too long brought about the beginnings of a headache. An annoying kind of pulse, like a hammer tapping against a nail. Or a fist banging against a wall. 

She looked away and followed after Ravus quickly, making a point of not looking his way when he glanced over her shoulder with one of those _‘do_ not _run in the manor_ _’_ glares. His definition of _running_ was anything just over a slightly rushed walk, really.

Behind his desk was a bureau of drawers: an archive. Just like she thought. She hadn’t been watching when he retrieved the key, but when she finally reached his desk and glanced around him to see what he was doing, he’d already unlocked one of the drawers and brought out a single book. 

“You may not take it from this room.”

He handed it to her without another word.

She held it carefully, running her fingers gingerly over the ornate black leather record book with House Blanc's crest embossed on the front in silver leaf, as if it would spark a memory. But if it held any memories, they were kept tightly inside by stiff bindings, with the resistance of an uncracked cover that hadn't often been opened. The original had been lost in the fire, so it was no surprise it looked so fresh: a reprint, put back together with no small amount of effort. 

She paced the study as she leafed through the pages, much too restless to stay by the desk where Ravus tended to various correspondence, to sit in the armchair by the fireplace, or even stand by the light of the wide windows. 

Records—some old, some recent, at least datewise. A birth certificate, proof of legal guardianship, medical files, some school certificates… All hers, stuck securely into the section of blank pages at the front of the book with tiny brass brackets. 

All standard. Nothing that caught her eye. For several minutes, she continued carefully turning the pages until something stopped her in her tracks.

A small family tree. A literal one, finely illustrated, with branches spreading around the family crest that matched the brooch in her pocket. The short history of House Blanc, made up of mostly names that belonged to the old, long-gone nobility of the past, but one branch she recognized. Her family’s names: Vera Fama Blanc, Felix Vers Blanc, and his unwed, heirless brother, who’d been her previous guardian, Silas Vers Blanc. None familiar. Not even her own name, attached to her parents’ by a thin line. But they were sure and solid, as if set in stone—proof that she had been a part of something and hadn’t just wandered in like a duckling hidden away among swans.

It didn't bring relief, or anything like it. 

What did _proof_ matter when it only felt like paper in her hands? Ink on the pages? It was just another book, when she closed it and held it tight in her hands.

It wasn’t what she’d hoped for. 

She watched Ravus for a long moment, even as he made a point to ignore her presence and focus on his own business at his writing desk, wondering if she should ask him if that detached feeling was…normal. Or if she should schedule a visit with Cornelia's father in the infirmary. 

The rapid scratching of his fountain pen came to an abrupt halt, as if he finally noticed her stare. But she knew he'd been well aware the entire time and had simply had enough. 

“Did you need something else?”

“Not really.” She approached his desk slowly and set the book on its surface, mindful to not lay it on any documents, and within his reach. 

He wasted no time putting it back in its proper place, and when it was back in its drawer, safe and locked away, she felt somehow lighter. 

“If that's all, please see yourself out, Estelle. I'm afraid I'm quite busy.”

In other words, no questions. Not that she had any to ask—nothing she hadn't already asked, anyway. The records didn't bring up anything new.

That wasn't to say she didn't have anything _else_ to say. It had been bothering her for quite some time, actually.

The meeting with that _Caligo Ulldor_.

She made it a few steps to the door before stopping, shifting her weight from foot to foot and folding her hands behind her back, before finally turning to face Ravus again.

“So…about what Ew— _Ulldor_ said. That’s not something people really think about you, right? He was just being a jerk?”

He didn't look up, but he stopped writing again. “He’s only threatened by my rise through the ranks. One day I will be his superior and he _will_ think twice before speaking such slander.”

“I’d kill to kick him out of a window.”

This time, he looked up.

_“Estelle_. _”_ With a biting emphasis on the last syllable. 

“Sorry, sorry. I’ll watch my mouth until you're his superior.” She shrugged, even against his warning glare. _But you know you want to, too_. 

She considered her next words carefully. 

“You know I’d never think you had intentions like… _that_ …right, Ravus? Like how he said…?”

The implications of it still burned in the healing scar on her palm, in torn stitches where she’d gripped her hands together too tight. Like something had cut into it fresh once more. To twist what little she had of a family into something so vulgar… She certainly wouldn’t forget that transgression anytime soon.

He set his pen down. 

“You made the sentiment perfectly clear in your response to him. But do consider how you speak to those that come from Niflheim.” In a rare show of that weariness that made him seem so much older, he breathed a sigh. “There truly are times when you must hold your tongue. For your own sake.”

The weight behind those words nearly caught her off-guard. Especially with how he said them—not with anger, but something closer to regret. Something that brought that uneasy feeling from before creeping back. Maybe Luna was right. Maybe there always was a storm. 

Maybe Estelle had been the one to bring it.

“Did I cause more problems?”

“Aside from you still dragging in the dirt on your shoes?”

She glanced down at where she'd walked on reflex—there had been absolutely _no_ mud outside—but quickly caught on to the jab. “That was a bit much.” Even for a strategic change in topic.

“Was it?” he asked, unconcerned, pen in hand once more, writing away. 

End of discussion. But, if she pushed her luck just a bit… 

“Well, since I have your attention—there's one more thing. There was a jeweler I saw in Uulora Village, and I need to have my bracelet fixed, so… Can I go back?”

_“No.”_

One victory was her limit for the day, it seemed. No matter how empty its results.


End file.
